


Thin Dream

by greenpen



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenpen/pseuds/greenpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extensions of #CQaday</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blocks

He watches her from afar. She’s lying on the floor next to Franny, her head propped onto her hand, observing. Franny is playing with blocks, a light pink set with the letters of the alphabet on the sides. 

Carrie is arranging them out before her. “F-R-A-N-C-E-S,” she says animatedly. “See? Frances,” she repeats slowly. “That’s you.” She pokes her finger in her belly.

Franny giggles, in that way that makes his heart skip. He hooks his neck around the door frame to get a closer look. 

Carrie begins rearranging the letters again. “P-E-T-E-R. Peter. Peter.” 

Franny picks up the “P” block. 

“Peter,” Carrie says again, pointing behind her, toward the direction she knows he’s watching from. 

Franny says something in gibberish and he hears the distinct sound of Carrie laughing to herself, the breath letting out of her throat. He imagines the wrinkles around her eyes.

“M-A-M-A. Mama. That’s me. Mama.” 

Franny just mutters to herself and begins arranging the blocks in a pyramid. 

He pictures what it will be like when Franny says her first words, whether he will be there, whether she will. He wonders what they’ll be. He thinks about this a lot. 

He remembers how afraid she was, how terrified, abandoned, and he thanks some god he doesn’t really believe in that she’s safe and okay now. 

He never tells her this, wonders if she knows. That she did it, that she’s doing it, all by herself practically. If he says he’s proud, he’s afraid he’ll sound condescending. If he says I told you so, he’s afraid he’ll sound conceited. 

He still hasn’t gotten to that place. Where he says anything, because he’s not afraid. 

When she turns to look at him, her face is expectant, searching. He just smiles, in that way he does. 


	2. Firsts

She says I love you first. 

It’s night. November. A Friday. They’re lying in bed facing each other, Carrie’s hands tucked into her chest. Quinn’s resting his head on his arm, scrunching the pillow up beneath him. 

He is telling her about Boston, a place she’s never been to, believe it or not. He’s talking about his first college roommate, an international student named Pei, a mathematics major. 

“I was so sheltered growing up. He was the first person I ever knew who wasn’t born in America.” 

She nods, listening intently. You would never know it but he’s an animated storyteller. He’s seen so much, done so much. He has enough stories to last a lifetime. In brief daydreams she imagines him telling them to Franny when she’s older. All the places he’s been. Syria, Egypt, Australia, Moscow, Copenhagen, Chile, Alaska. (She hopes he’ll edit some of the more graphic details.)

She loves to listen to him talk, loves to hear the cadence of his voice, the shift in tone, volume, inflections here or there. 

“…But I never really talked to him after freshman year. It’s kinda sad, really. I saw him on campus a few times after that, said hi. Sometimes I wonder what he’s up to. Some brainy professor I bet.” 

His voice trails off and he looks over at her. He can feel her staring. He still feels self-conscious about that—he doesn’t much like being under her scrutiny. 

“What?” he says. 

“Nothing,” she says, a smile creeping up. She rather enjoys seeing him squirm, wonders when he’ll just get used to it. She’ll be watching him for a long time. 

She says it then: “I love you.” Her tone is even and she states it simply, like she’s reciting a fact she read in a book somewhere. 

His eyes narrow a bit as he readjusts himself on the pillow and thinks of what to say. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His mind has gone blank. He wants to say it, too. He does. 

“I’ve never said that to anyone before,” she says. 

He can feel the weight of the moment, but he knows he’s not ready. This doesn’t bother her, his silence. She always thought it would, but it doesn’t, not the real thing. 

He realizes then that his lack of response hasn’t phased her. He makes a mental note to thank her later — in a way she’ll appreciate. 

But now he’s content to pull her close, wrap his arm around her waist as she tucks into him. He can feel the heat come on above them, but she still feels cold next to him. 

She shuts her eyes then as he closes the distance between them, his body flush against hers. She mouths the words to herself over and over again— _I love you, I love you_ —trying them out for comfort. 


	3. Space

One day he receives a letter of his own, and that does it. It does him in, it does the damage. It does everything she’d been dreading, it does everything he wishes it wouldn’t. 

His nightmares return. Something goes blank inside of him. He sleeps during the day, because apparently it’s the only time he actually can. He drinks an alarming amount. He hardly eats. 

It scares her. _This_ scares her. She stops just short of telling herself that _he_ scares her, because she knows how it will sound, but in some small part of her she realizes it’s true. This life of theirs is scaring her. 

She catches him sitting on the bed one morning completely still, staring off into space, or out the window, but either way she looks at him and it’s like a complete hole where his eyes should be. 

“Quinn?” she says to no response. “Quinn.” 

“What?” he finally says, looking up to her. 

“Are you alright?” 

She doesn’t know why she asks this question. Obviously he isn’t. It seems the best way to ease into it, now that she’s finally worked up the courage. 

“I’m fine.” 

She pauses, measures her words. “You—I… I’m very worried about you.” She does her best to keep her tone even but compassionate, not accusatory. 

She doesn’t know what she expects him to say but it’s certainly not what he does, which is “I’m worried about me, too.” 

She swallows. “What can I do? To help?” 

She sits down next to him then, places her hand gently on his knee. She knows from experience that any unexpected touch can trigger something dangerous. He lets her though. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s the truth. 

She reaches her hand out to his back, begins moving it in soothing circles. She wishes he would look her in the eye, but he doesn’t—or he can’t—and continues staring straight ahead. 

“We can’t keep going like this,” she whispers to him, some kind of hurt in her voice that crushes him when he detects it. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“I don’t know what to do.” 

After a long while she says tentatively, “Maybe you should see someone?” and he looks over at her then. She’s crying—just barely but he can tell—and he doesn't understand why. 

She turns away when he looks, pulling her hand back, some kind of hopeless self-preservation. 

“Carrie…” he says, and now he’s the one wishing for an answer. “Carrie, look at me.” 

She turns, and their eyes meet, and he wipes away an errant tear, letting his hand linger on her cheek. 

She places her hand over his, his hand on her cheek, these layers of rejection and fear and loss mingling into something they can both grab onto. She kisses his hand like she always does, and he remembers the first time she ever did that, and how he felt then.

He leans in and kisses her cheek, feeling the tears on his lips, and he wants to scream, anything to get them both out of this. 

He wraps his arms around her then, pulling her into his lap, and she rests her chin on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, into his ear, and she slides her fingers over the nape of his neck, through his hair, back and forth, until her heartbeat returns to normal. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post sporadically here, unrelated bits of story too long for 140 characters.


End file.
